


should auld acquaintance be forgot

by blueink3



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: M/M, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss, Panic Attacks, Pre-Canon, or maybe an au, you pick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:35:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22077058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueink3/pseuds/blueink3
Summary: Only his sister and an abundance of alcohol could get him here: in the middle of hell on his least favorite holiday, freezing his ass off so said sister can make out at midnight with her latest fling who may or may not be in a boy band.Or, what if Patrick and David met a few years earlier?
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 147
Kudos: 510





	1. should auld acquaintance be forgot

**Author's Note:**

> And with this fic, I have reached over a million words posted on ao3. Happy 2020.

Ryan Seacrest’s voice booms across Times Square as some pop star whose name he doesn’t know but who offered him E before she went onstage finishes a song that sounds vaguely familiar and waves to the crowd of psychos who’ve gathered beneath the blinking LED screens. 

Only his sister and an abundance of alcohol could get him here: in the middle of hell on his least favorite holiday, freezing his ass off so said sister can make out at midnight with her latest fling who may or may not be in a boy band. He honestly can’t tell. They all look alike. 

David adjusts the **Happy New Year** tiara that Alexis wrestled on his head and plucks at the string of Mardi Gras beads she got around his neck. He drew the line at light up glasses, though. He has standards. Sometimes. 

Besides, he doesn’t need to be reminded that another year has passed and here he is: stalled in his career, alone in every aspect of his life, chasing after a sister who never remembers to occasionally say thank you for saving her for the nth time. 

At least Anderson Cooper is broadcasting from the other end of the square. 

Fuck When Harry Met Sally and its unrealistic expectations for this stupid, stupid day. People don’t just - _run_ across town to declare their undying love. It doesn’t happen. He should be home in his pajamas watching Bridget Jones with a pint of ice cream and a bottle of pinot noir. Champagne is for celebrations and this is anything but. 

But he hopes. He hopes for the Billy Crystal to his Meg Ryan and for that, he’ll curse (and worship) Nora Ephron until his dying day. 

“David!” Alexis yells and he looks up from the barricaded-off section of the crowd for VIPs to find his sister waving, her other arm around the neck of the boy-bander David really hopes is the one they arrived with. 

He rolls his eyes but gives a half-hearted wave in return, happy that she’s happy. Genuinely. Almost. 

He looks around and squints in the bright lights, eyeing the ball at the other end of the square just waiting to be dropped. He sympathizes in a way. Lately, he’s always felt like he’s on the edge of a precipice, waiting for the little nudge that will send him tumbling down a drop too steep to survive. 

The thought makes him inhale sharply, a grip tight and unyielding taking hold of his lungs. He should have done more this year. Made more of his life. Instead, he’s where he always is, watching Alexis live while he just exists, frozen toes in designer boots while the newest iPhone buzzes in his pocket, probably with a text from a drunken ex, asking what he’s up to tonight. 

If it didn’t take an hour to get through security and if he wasn’t actually concerned the boy-bander might try to kidnap Alexis and take her on their North American tour, he might text back, just for the company. Even though it’s a bad idea. A mistake he’s made more times than he can count. But company is company, and New Year’s is so painful to be alone on. 

The grip on his lungs tightens and those icy cold tendrils stretch out to ensnare his heart as well. He thinks he might be having an acute myocardial infarction and he makes a vague note to stop watching Grey’s Anatomy in his spare time. 

_Oh not good._

His breath is far too short and entirely too quick, and his ears are ringing as his vision blurs around the edges. He thinks of the headlines - **Rose Video Heir Dies in the Middle of Times Square New Year’s Celebration Covered in Confetti and a Tacky Necklace** \- and decides that the indignity of it all is just too much. He stumbles past the barricade, getting a side eye from a cop or two, and bends over, putting trembling hands on shaking knees as the crush of the masses presses in all around him. 

His vision is starting to go with every breath that isn’t quite enough, black dots taking over like a bad cross-fade in a Star Tracks movie and he takes a moment to think about how face planting in the gutter in the middle of 44th Street is decidedly _incorrect_. He’d never get the stains out of this coat - 

“Are you all right?” a voice asks and David shakes his head as a warm palm comes down on his back, large and firm, but gentle as it rubs soothing circles up and down his spine. “Can you breathe for me?” 

He shakes his head again and vaguely registers that the man speaking has crouched down next to him, putting their heads level.

“Don’t like crowds?” 

He groans. “Or New Year’s.” The urge to pass out is dwindling, but his legs still feel like a baby deer trying to walk on ice. 

“So this is a perfect place to be. Naturally.” There’s a tease in his tone and David lifts his head enough to glare. His vision swims only slightly. 

But - oh. 

He’s cute. 

In a buttoned-up kinda way. He’s wearing a black, cardboard top hat that says Happy New Year in gold glitter, and it’s perched at a jaunty angle, which should look ridiculous, but it just adds to the overall _Oh_ factor. It’s annoying, really. 

The guy’s hand pauses between David’s shoulder blades, surreptitiously checking his breathing. “Can you take a slow, deep breath through your nose for me?” 

David wants to roll his eyes, but actually, that task sounds rather gargantuan at the moment. He’s still bent over, gaze fixated on the tragic open-toed heels some neophyte insisted on wearing to an outdoor party in basically January when a gruff voice interrupts his snarky musings. 

“He okay?”

The fingers still between his shoulder blades dig in slightly and the man next to him is quick to answer. 

“All good. A bit too much champagne.” 

The gruff voice hums. Judging by the boots he wears, it’s another cop. “Just make sure he doesn’t hurl on national television.” 

“Will do,” the man says as the boots walk away. 

“I resent that,” David mutters, but luckily they’re left alone. Or as alone as they can be in a sea of a million people. 

“I know. I’m sorry,” the guy says, actually sounding chagrined. “I figured it would go over better than saying you were having a panic attack.” 

“Those are fake.” 

The guy laughs, but it’s rueful. “I guarantee they’re not.” 

“Personal experience?” 

He sighs heavily. “You have no idea.” 

David tries to stand, but sways when all of the blood rushes from his head.

“Whoa there,” the guys says, getting an arm around his waist while the other cups his sweaty (ew) but perfectly moisturized cheek. 

“M’fine,” he mumbles, words slurring in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol he consumed. 

“Just breathe,” the guy whispers. It sounds thunderous amid the noise-makers and loudspeakers. “It’s okay. In and out. Nice and slow.” 

David inhales a rattling breath and feels the grip on his lungs loosen ever so slightly. 

The guy gives him an encouraging nod so David tries again, just because he likes that expression on his face. His other hand comes up and gently cups his cheek, forcing David’s darting eyes to meet his. No one has held him softly since Adelina.

“What’s your name?” 

“David,” he manages. 

“Nice to meet you, David,” he says with a fond smile. “I’m Patrick.” 

“Well,” he swallows, “that’s a stupid hat, Patrick.” 

Patrick snorts and raises an eyebrow. “Says the guy wearing a plastic tiara.” His smile fades to something more serious, something more concerned, and David swallows again because the full force of those eyes could be enough to buckle his knees once more, if he let it. “Are you okay?” 

“I think so.” He really, really doesn't.

“Did you eat today?”

He remembers the trays of canapes he demolished in the VIP suite just across the street and grimaces. “Yeah, that’s not the problem.” 

Patrick hums thoughtfully. “What is?” He lets go of David’s face and David, rather embarrassingly, sways forward until those capable hands take hold of his waist once more. 

“I hate this day.” 

Patrick snorts. “Is this your version of a protest then?” 

David nods back at the performers’ platform where Alexis is full-on making out with a different boybander. Or is the same one? Doesn’t matter. “That’s my sister.” 

“Ah,” Patrick replies, as if everything makes sense now when David knows that that’s really not an explanation at all. 

“She tends to get into trouble.” He watches Patrick watch Alexis pull away and bounce up and down, booping her boy toy on the nose. 

Patrick smiles sincerely. “Never would have guessed.” 

Ryan Seacrest’s voice booms across the crowd again, and David can at least be grateful that he can’t hear Anderson Cooper from where they are. 

“What about you?” he asks, because one of his resolutions is to be less self-involved. Or it is as of a minute ago. “What are you doing here?” 

And then something strange happens. Patrick drops his gaze, shifts his weight, and stares at his feet, looking more unsure than he has all evening. Or, at least in the last five minutes. “I, uh, I came here with someone.” 

“Oh,” David breathes because isn’t that just fucking typical. 

“Yeah, she - uh, we got separated.” 

She.

_Ugh._

“Easy to do here,” he breathes and Patrick nods, swallowing hard. 

“This was on her bucket list. Frankly, I think it’s hell on earth.” 

“Well at least we have that in common,” David replies and Patrick stares at him once more. As if they have more than just their shared mutual disdain. “And where is, um, she?” If it comes out a tad strangled, Patrick is kind enough not to comment. 

“I’m not sure. She went to find a bathroom and there are too many people to get good cell service. She said she’d make her way back to our spot but…” he rubs the back of his neck, “then I saw a guy who looked like he was about to pass out and I left where I was.” 

“Oh,” David murmurs, just as Alexis calls out for him once more. He turns to find her pointing at the mayor who’s on the platform now, some massive glowing orb in front of him. They must be getting close. “Why - why would you do that?” 

Patrick gets that look on his face again, the one that seems to wonder how David can be both so omniscient and yet so dense at the same time. “Do you ever wonder what you’re doing with your life?”

David laughs wetly because why wouldn’t he? “All the damn time. Particularly on December 31st.” 

“It’s a stupid day,” Patrick mutters and David’s hands flail. 

“That’s what I’ve been saying!” 

Patrick laughs, a bright, twinkling thing that could carry all the hope of the new year in it. But it’s short - too short - and it dies quickly as he licks his lips and stares off, squinting in the lights. 

David notices that he hasn’t let go of his waist yet. He doesn’t mind in the slightest. 

“I don’t love her,” Patrick murmurs, still staring up at the ball on top of the crossroads of the world, teetering, ready to fall. 

David exhales, fingers tightening on his elbows. “Then you should leave her.” 

Patrick laughs again, but it’s nothing like it was before. This one is cold and hollow. Resigned to its fate. “I proposed on Christmas.” 

“Oh.” 

_“59…. 58… 57…”_

_The countdown has started_ , he thinks wildly, which is quite possibly the most obvious thought he’s had tonight. Beyond _This was the worst idea in the world._

“Do you want to marry her?” he asks and he has no idea why he’s having such a heavy conversation with a complete stranger. Why he hasn’t let go of this stranger’s arms. Why he could drown in this stranger’s eyes. 

“I’m gay,” Patrick breathes and David could offer up a plethora of replies, each one more sarcastic than the next, but he knows how delicate this is. Despite knowing him a matter of minutes, he knows how fragile the incredibly strong man in his arms can be. So what he opts for instead is a simple -

“Okay.” 

“Oh my God, I’ve never said that out loud,” Patrick blurts and now it’s his turn to step back and put his hands on his knees. David misses the feel of him acutely. 

_“43… 42… 41…”_

“That was an incredibly brave thing you did,” he tries, placing his hand on that broad back and feeling every inhale Patrick’s lungs make. 

“What - run away from my fiancee?” 

“No,” he murmurs. “Admit that. And you didn’t run away, you came to help me.” 

_“25.... 24… 23…”_

"I did," Patrick breathes. 

"It was very gallant of you."

"Was it?" Patrick laughs. "Haven't been called that before." 

David doesn't know what exactly is happening, but what he does know is that Patrick has been glancing down at his lips every few seconds since the countdown started. 

And David has never wanted anything so much in his life. 

_“7… 6… 5…”_

“Can I kiss you?” Patrick asks, but David already has a hand around his neck. 

“You fucking better.” 

_“3… 2… 1…”_

_Oh._

That’s what Nora Ephron was talking about. 

Patrick’s lips are tentative and chapped, but steady and warm. He moans as he tilts his head and pulls David in by his lapels, groaning as David scratches at the hair at the nape of his neck. David feels fireworks in his bones, despite the fact that they haven't gone off yet. 

They pull away, panting, pressing forehead to forehead as David's finger traces the shell of Patrick's ear, causing him to shiver in his arms. 

“Happy New Year, David,” he breathes against his mouth. 

“Happy New Year, Patrick,” he whispers in reply, dazed like he’s taken a hit to the head. Their noses brush and David could just stay here forever, in this oasis in the middle of hell on this, the worst day of the year. 

Frank Sinatra is blasting through the speakers, _New York, New York_ rattling his ribcage, etching this moment on his heart. 

“I should get back,” Patrick murmurs, looking like every word chips away at him. 

David licks his lips and nods, because of course that’s how this night ends. Not every New Year’s kiss is rom com worthy. In fact, hardly any of them are. 

But he wants to mark this, he needs Patrick to know that he needed this perhaps as much as he did, so he takes off his purple beads and carefully drapes them over Patrick’s head, letting them settle against his too-exposed neck. 

“There,” he murmurs, patting them down softly, reverently. “Something to remember me by.” 

Patrick smiles again, but it’s sad this time. He’ll catalogue it anyway, along with the rest. “I don’t need an object to remember you, David.” 

“That’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me.” 

_“Patrick!”_

He hears the woman call the name, but it could be anyone, he tries to reason - there are a million people here, after all - but Patrick stiffens in his arms. He clearly knows that voice and, clearly, this is over. 

“You have to go.”

Patrick swallows. “I do.” 

David leans in and presses their foreheads together again. “This was… one of the better New Year’s I’ve spent, so… thank you.” 

“Likewise,” he breathes, gaze dipping down to his lips before stealing one last chaste kiss. “See you around, David.” 

“I hope so, Patrick.” 

Patrick turns to leave, but David can’t watch him walk away. Not yet. 

“Hey,” he says, grabbing onto his hand just to get a moment longer. “I hope you have a really good year.” 

Patrick smiles, but his eyes are wet. “I hope you do, too, David.” 

He watches him disappear into the crowd, cardboard hat getting jostled until he’s just another reveler in a sea of wishes and hopes. A stranger who’s taken a piece of David with him in return for the piece he left behind. 

“Happy New Year!” Alexis yells in his ear as she wraps her arms around his neck and hops up to place a kiss on his cheek. 

He rolls his eyes, but he’s not even annoyed. Not really. 

"Happy New Year," he murmurs in return. 

David isn’t sure why, but he has a sneaking suspicion it’s going to be the best one yet. 


	2. we'll take a cup o'kindness yet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _One year later... ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally going to be a one-shot, but people asked for a part two and here we are.

He cannot _believe_ he’s been wrangled into this again. It was the outer circle of Dante’s Inferno the first time he came and - what? Did he expect things to change over the course of a year? He’s fucking Sisyphus in head-to-toe Givenchy. 

Blessedly, he still can’t hear Anderson Cooper broadcasting from the other end of the square, and a saint of a cop turned her back when David smuggled a cocktail from the VIP suite past the barricades. He’s drinking his way to a coat and counting down the minutes until he can go back inside and either get mind-numbingly drunk or just go home and go to bed. 

“David!” 

Alexis is somewhere amidst the stage made of scaffolding, no doubt making out with this year’s fling. At least it’s one of the co-hosts - she’s moving up in the world. He tips the cocktail back, looking around for a place to stash his coupe before they hit midnight. He thinks about pressing his luck with the cop and ducking back inside for another, but the crush of bodies is pressing against the barricade and he’d really rather not wade through a sea of humans, even if it is for another deceptively strong fruity cocktail that will undoubtedly have him flat on his ass within the first minute of the new year. 

One can only hope. 

He determinedly does not think of this time 365 days ago. He doesn’t think of honey whiskey eyes almost hidden beneath the rim of a ridiculous cardboard hat, gold glitter sticking to his cheek next to faded freckles only visible beneath vibrant LED screens. He doesn’t think of chapped lips, warm and determined, or of a steady palm on a bowed back, rising and falling with the tide of his decidedly unsteady breaths. 

He shakes his head and eyes the scaffolding, trying to spot his sister because she could at least _pretend_ to know him. He hates everything about this day but if he’s going to be alone, again, at the stroke of midnight, he’d prefer to do it on his terms. Not be dragged to the den of Dionysus and ditched for a piece of (admittedly toned) ass. 

He accepts an air kiss from a model he once had a brief flirtation with as she ascends the stairs to the stage on sky-high heels. He stays grounded on the pavement, feeling more lonely than he has any right to in this, the busiest place in the world. 

Fate can’t intervene twice. He knows the rules of the universe. He has a feeling she bent them enough for him last year, to give him a man like that at the end of one year and the start of another. 

Things like that don’t happen to people like him. 

Certainly not more than once. 

He inhales slowly and deeply to stave off the panic threatening to crash over him like a wave, the way Patrick taught him.

 _Patrick._ It’s the first time he’s allowed himself to think his name all night. 

It’s like a dam breaking, two syllables banging down every mental and emotional fortification he’s spent the past twelve months building up. 

Christ, he could really use that cocktail right about now. 

He watches the mayor take the stage and the glowing orb he and his wife are going to press that really does nothing to actually start the ball dropping. There’s probably a guy on a headset with a switch directly wired into the Royal Observatory in Greenwich. 

“David!” Alexis calls again, coming down the stairs this time and trotting over to him gracefully, an impressive feat considering the heels she’s wearing.

“What are you doing?” he asks as she bounces to a stop in front of him. “It’s almost midnight.”

She waves a vague hand at the current love of her life and adjusts the tiara on her head. “He’s got, like, hosting duties. He’ll kiss me after.” 

“Ew.” 

“What about you? Anyone catch your eye?” She tries to wink and fails miserably. 

She had been too absorbed in her boy-bander last year to watch a complete stranger totally upend David’s world. It’s why she’s spent the past few months giving him pitying looks while making occasional comments vaguely wondering why he isn’t dating anymore. She even went so far as to try and set him up with the brother of one of her friends, which he’s pretty sure everyone involved regretted. 

But even he couldn’t quite put into words why he was feeling the way he was. Like a puzzle whose last piece has gone missing. 

_I’m in love with an engaged man who has no last name._

Then again, maybe he could. 

_“59… 58… 57…”_

“How’s the gallery?” she asks, eyes narrowed knowingly. 

If she’s trying to get a rise out of him, it won’t work. Yes, he’d found out his parents had been funding his patrons, but he also curated an exhibit that got a great write-up in both the Times _and_ The New Yorker. He might not be making the money he thought he was, but what money he is making is _his._

“It’s fine.” He hesitates to call it ‘thriving,’ but it’s… something. 

Then his sister says something that just _floors_ him: 

“I’m proud of you.” 

He turns and stares at her, LED lights reflecting off her perfect skin. She’s being serious. 

“... Thank you.” 

_“34… 33… 32…”_

“Do you ever wonder what would happen if all of this went away?” she asks, jolting him out of his thoughts. 

“All of what?” 

She shrugs but he can see in her eyes that she knows exactly what. “Just - all of it.” 

The money, the privilege, the status. The things that get them into the VIP pen instead of packed in with the rest of the insane masses like sardines. 

He compares where he is this year to where he was last year and not much has changed, but the revelation is not as soul-crushing as it was then. Perhaps because he knows what’s possible. He knows what it is to truly feeling something for someone - brief thought it was. He knows... his worth. 

And David Rose is worth a lot. 

“I think we’d be okay,” he says, and he means it. 

_“15… 14… 13…”_

Alexis turns away from him to watch the ball make its final descent and, as the clock winds down, he tries not to think of this moment last year. Of steady hands on his waist and kind eyes boring holes into his soul. 

_“Can I kiss you?”_

_“You fucking better.”_

He swallows hard and clears his throat, looking down as he feels Alexis take his hand, as if she knows. 

“Happy New Year, David.” She glances away from the ball and boops his nose with a finger not holding tight to him.

He smiles and squeezes her palm. “Happy New Year, Alexis.” 

_“... 3… 2… 1…”_

Cheers explode around them and confetti starts to fall. He feels… not happy, but not sad either. Content, maybe. If he knew what contentedness felt like. 

“Alexis!” someone calls and her eyes widen. 

“Oop, gotta go! Kissy time.”

“Gross,” he whines, all semblance of their momentary truce gone, but he does give her a genuine smile as he gently shoves her toward the stairs to the broadcast booth once more. 

He watches her go for a moment, wondering how long is polite to wait around before splitting, but then - 

“Is this hat better?” a voice asks, _that_ voice, and he stills, closing his eyes tight because he refuses to believe that this is real. That something like this could actually be happening. 

He turns slowly, continuing to stare at the ground, eyes slowly raking up past the discarded confetti and broken noisemakers to land on a pair of mountaineering shoes followed by midrange denim, a navy coat, and _those_ eyes beneath a navy blue top hat made out like the night sky that reads _happy new year_ in neat gold cursive.

David swallows and laughs out a sob, nodding with a fervor that causes the tears in his eyes to fall onto his cheeks. “The hat is not great, but an upgrade, for sure.” 

Patrick steps up to the barricade, hands shoved deep into his pockets, and gives a sheepish shrug. “Sorry I’m late. Security was a little tight.”

“Oh my God,” David breathes, shaking his head slowly, still not entirely sure that what he’s seeing isn’t some sort of champagne-induced, Y2K-glitch fever dream. “Can we - ” he looks around for the nearest cop. It's the one from before. “He needs to be let in. He’s with me. Can you let him in please?"

The cop smirks, as if she’s been watching the whole exchange, and then nods, gesturing for Patrick to come to a break in the barricade. 

“Happy New Year,” he murmurs to her as he passes by and she replies in kind, but David is already reaching out for him, practically crushing him to his chest and burying his face in his shoulder. 

“You’re here,” he breathes against his skin, breath hiccuping as he feels Patrick place a soft kiss on his neck. 

“I am," Patrick chuckles, a sound that rumbles in David’s chest, rearranging his organs and rewiring his heart.

David pulls away but keeps a tight hold on his shoulders. “How did you find me?” 

Patrick lifts a hand and carefully wipes a tear from David’s cheek with his thumb. “You’d be amazed by what some gentle stalking can accomplish, David Rose.”

He huffs out a laugh. “You know my name.” And never has it sounded so beautiful. 

Patrick hums. “When you pointed out your sister last year, I saw who she was making out with. I just googled to see who his girlfriend was and, after that, it was easy to find Alexis Rose’s brother.” 

“Okay, but how did you know I’d be _here_? Once is an anomaly. Twice is… unprecedented.” 

“I didn’t know. I’d hoped, but…” Patrick bites his lip and nods up to the broadcast booth where Alexis is making out with the host. “Again, Google.” 

“God bless my sister’s poor choice in men,” he breathes, tugging Patrick in by the lapels and pressing their lips together. It’s like the end of every movie he’s ever watched and wanted for himself, but this time, it won’t stop when the credits roll. 

His fingers dance across Patrick’s shoulders to the nape of his neck, catching on something cold and round in their exploration. It’s only when he pulls away for breath that he realizes Patrick is wearing the purple beads David draped over his head a year ago. 

“You kept them,” he whispers a little wondrously, delicately tugging on the plastic, if only to keep Patrick in his orbit for a little while longer. 

“I certainly didn’t need them to remember you by,” he murmurs, looking down and covering David’s hand with his own, “but they were the only thing you’ve given me.”

David’s lips tug to the side in a smile. “And a kiss.” 

Patrick laughs. “Two, actually.” 

“Three, but we don’t need to keep count,” he breathes against Patrick’s lips again, cursing the hitch in his voice as his throat goes tight. “I was really hoping you’d be here.” 

And then they’re kissing again, lips fitting together as if they’ve been doing it all their lives. Confetti continues to rain down and, even though people are still screaming like it’s the End of Days, David thinks that this would be a hell of a way to go. 

“Oh my God, David!” Alexis screams from somewhere above him, and he breaks apart from Patrick to watch her jumping up and down, hands clapping, jaw dropped, teetering precariously on the top step of the broadcast booth. 

Patrick gives her a little wave and she squeals again. 

“Don’t do that. Don’t be nice. I’ll never hear the end of it.” 

“I certainly hope not,” Patrick replies and there’s promise in it. A promise that this isn’t like last year - this is going beyond tonight. 

“Oh. I take it you’re not engaged anymore then?” David asks, a question he really, probably, definitely should have led with. But, like, his lips were there and his eyes were warm and David is only human. 

He just looks so fucking _fond._ “No, David, I’m not.” 

David nods rapidly, head tilting back, not caring that he’s getting dirty confetti stuck in his hair. Not when Patrick’s hands are on his waist, holding him up like he never wants to let him go.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” 

Patrick grins. “I have no plans.” 

“And the next day?” He wants them all. 

“I have to check out of a hotel.” 

“And go where?” David asks. Again, with pertinent questions he probably should have led with. 

“I live in Toronto,” Patrick says with a wince, but that’s not what David cares about at the moment. Well, he _does_ , but he’s got a personal jet on retainer. He can work with that. 

He shakes his head and flaps his hands. Patrick still doesn’t let go of him. “... You mean to tell me that you flew to another country, to the most expensive city, during the most insane time of the year, on the _off-chance_ that I might be here.” 

“Yes?” 

David stares at him. “Patrick whatever your last name is - ”

“Brewer.” 

“Brewer.” Oh that’s nice. “Patrick Brewer, I hope you know what you’re signing up for because I am in imminent danger of liking you a terrifying amount.” 

Patrick laughs as he shakes his head and cups David’s cheeks in his hands. “You just pointed out that I flew to another country with no guarantee that you’d be here. David Rose, I’m _in love_ with you.” 

David feels the words land, feels them soaking into his soul and making his features do all sorts of facial gymnastics. He should be panicking; a man he’s known for all of five minutes (and all of his life, it feels like) just told him he loves him. Instead, all he feels is calm. 

“You just met me,” he whispers, voice hoarse, because _one_ of them has to be the voice of reason. And it sure as hell won’t be the one who dropped God knows how much money on a hotel and a plane ticket to New York at New Year’s. 

“I did,” Patrick replies, fighting a smile. “Doesn’t change the fact that I’ve thought about you every day for the last year.” 

David swallows hard and laughs through another sob, nodding his head. “Me too.” 

Patrick gives in, letting the smile take over his face. “Tell you what. How about I take you to dinner, and we get to know one another a little better.” 

“It’s past midnight,” David argues and Patrick raises a pale eyebrow beneath his mildly upgraded cardboard hat. 

“Are you telling me you’re not hungry?” 

“Mkay, first thing to know about me? I’m always hungry.” 

Patrick presses a smile and a kiss onto David’s cheek, murmuring, “I’ll remember,” as he gets a hand on his back and gently leads him over to the barricade. “Do you need to say goodbye to your sister?” he asks, always courteous, but David shakes his head. 

He thinks of the way she looked at him and saw him, _truly_ saw him, perhaps for the first time. How she told him she was proud of him and booped his nose, before bouncing off in five-inch heels as only his sister can. 

“We said our goodbyes,” he replies with a soft smile at the memory, before leading Patrick towards the masses once more. 

He’s approaching the cop who let Patrick in earlier; the cop who’s looking everywhere but at them, with a smile on her face like they’ve given her the greatest entertainment she's seen all evening. He’s tugged to a stop before he can get there, though, his name on Patrick’s tongue like it’s something reverent. 

“David.” 

“Yeah?” He turns to face him more fully, nearly blinded by the feelings carved into every faint line of his little button face. It’s a brightness that has nothing to do with the screens around them. 

Patrick slides his hand down David’s forearm and threads their fingers together, holding tight. “Happy New Year.” 

He really might be coming around to this holiday. 

“Happy New Year,” he whispers in reply, John Lennon’s _Imagine_ blaring over the loudspeakers now as he leans in to press a chaste kiss to lips that just begged to be taken. 

Patrick starts to lead the way now, a dopey look on his face, but David stops once more, pulling him to a halt. 

“Patrick?” he calls. 

He thinks of past December the 31sts alone on his couch, in his bed, in the bathroom of a club, in someone else’s bed. Of New Year’s Eves _not_ alone, but feeling like he might as well have been. 

“Yes?” 

He knows, in the very marrow of his bones, that this man will never make him feel that way. He closes his eyes and takes a breath, feeling like he’s about to step off a cliff with no clue whether the drop is four feet or four hundred. 

“I love you, too.” 

After all, no matter the distance, Patrick will cushion the fall.


End file.
